


Keep the Nightlight On

by jotunblood



Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Blood Kink, Canon-Typical Violence, Ghosts, Kissing, Knives, M/M, Nightmares, Pining, Psychological Horror, Sleep Deprivation, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 16:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18286091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jotunblood/pseuds/jotunblood
Summary: Outpost 3 was haunted, both by what'd died there and what wouldn't.





	Keep the Nightlight On

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is several long months in the making, and I'm so glad to finally have it finished! I wanted to try something a little out of my comfort zone, and am glad no one let me chicken out. Let me know, as always, what y'all think. I'm excited to hear your thoughts. Happy reading!
> 
> A note: this is set in the same extended Outpost verse as Be My Gallows, though reading that first isn't necessary. They're more like parallel running stories, and there are one or two vague references in the text to it, but those are more easter eggs than anything! If you find them, hope you enjoy!

Langdon haunted Outpost 3. Intimately, like he’d been there before. And maybe he had. He was a Big Deal Agent; dossiers, laptop, unlimited clearance. He probably visited all the Outposts while they were being fortified, and might’ve even had a hand in drawing plans. 

Gallant tried imagining that: the man bent over a drafter’s desk, long hair pulled back in a bun; pencil gripped by fingers smudged with graphite and sleeves bunched up at his elbows. He’d have worked in a loft with big, clean windows, a dozen floors above the street. Based in New York or Atlanta, Detroit or Austin; it didn’t matter. The Cooperative was a shadow agency. It could’ve set up camp for him wherever he wanted.

 _James Bond shit_ , as grandpa would’ve said.

Gallant scowled. He didn’t want to think of his grandfather. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to think about Langdon. Or he was, but the verdict kept changing. The man was infuriating, and terrifying, and electric. 

That last might’ve just been the sex drought talking. He hadn’t been laid in over a year when the man swept in: fresh faced, fresh meat, and clean. So clean that when he smelled him, Gallant had been embarrassed. The Outpost’s water was unmistakably recycled, and Langdon probably thought they all reeked.

It wasn't the worst thing he thought about them, probably. From what he could tell, interviews weren't going well. The results weren’t announced, but the collective mood was getting darker.

“It's like talking to a shark,” Andre said after his. 

He and Gallant were alone in the music room. Everyone else has gone back to their suites, or were scuttling through the halls like roaches.

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you notice? His eyes are dead. I've never looked at someone and felt so empty.”

Empty wasn’t what Langdon made him feel. Small, maybe, or pinned like a bug. Not empty, though. The man’s heat filled him up, but he wouldn’t say that to Andre. He didn’t want to seem like he was taking sides. 

Now that Langdon’s novelty had worn off, his presence was setting everyone on edge. The stale air drew tight when he entered a room, and the moments before he spoke were still. Conversations staggered off, and even the looping music dampened, like his coat was swallowing sound. He left the room voiceless. No one wanted his attention. To have it risked his annoyance, and that could be a death sentence, because the criteria for entering the Sanctuary was vague. Gallant wouldn’t be surprised it it was something that petty.

“I guess that means your interview went well.”

Andre scowled. “This isn’t funny.”

No, it wasn’t. Nothing about this was. They were living like rats, and in a few more months, they wouldn’t even be able to do that. Rations were critical by Venable’s calculations, and he trusted her math if nothing else. They were drowning, and Langdon was the life vest. Which was as shame, because he was only one man. He couldn’t carry all of them.

Or no, he could-- he’d said so himself. It was just he could choose not to.

 

 

 

He knew where Langdon’s room was because he’d seen him slip out of it one night several hours after curfew. He’d been wandering himself, unable to sleep. He’d had a nightmare about-- no. No point in reliving it. It’d been unpleasant, and the anxiety from it lingered; after waking, he couldn’t ease back to sleep. His room was too dark, too stifling and quiet. He needed to hear something echo.

He doubted that was why Langdon was up. The man didn’t seem the type to be shaken. Not by men, weapons, or feelings, and certainly not by dreams. Still, he was up, and didn’t notice he had company. Or he did, but wasn’t concerned. Either was likely. He wasn’t a threat; Langdon absolutely outranked him. He didn’t know his exact position in the eyes of the Cooperative, but knew it was under their prized agent. 

_Under_ used to be an exciting word. Under the table, under cover, under a lover. But it was drab now, as stripped of color as the Outpost. No one wanted to be _under_ anymore. He still thought about it sometimes, though. Alone in bed, he’d remember being crushed beneath a chest: struggling for breath between kisses and thrusts, half swallowing long, golden tumbles of hair.

He scoffed at that; it was a obvious new addition. None of his old flings had long hair. They’d let him buzz and cut and crop it how he wanted, and he rarely left more than a handful. He liked feeling it snag between his fingers, but more than a few inches seemed like a waste. It was unmanageable, and took styling badly. He used to hate seeing a face swallowed by hair.

He didn’t follow the man down the hall. It would’ve been stupid, and might’ve even gotten him killed. He was disposable-- Venable and Langdon’s contempt were proof. If the other man thought he was running up to attack, he wouldn’t be given a chance to explain. And how would he, anyway? There wasn’t a good way to spin stalking someone through the shadows.

He also didn’t slip into his room, though the door was left open. Not gaping, but cracked, and through it glowed something, faint and blue and familiar. Old Light, how he used to think of candles. The man had left his laptop on. It was a horrible oversight-- potential grounds for termination, depending on the sensitivity of the files. But Langdon couldn’t be terminated. Gallant didn’t know much, but suspected that was true. No one above him would dock points for this, if there was anyone truly above him at all.

He stayed a while longer, crouched in the shadow he’d dived in to avoid detection. His attention darted between the door and the hall, wondering if he waited, if he asked--

No. Langdon would refuse, or worse, report him to Venable. Her rules might’ve been fake, but if it meant humiliating him, the man might indulge her. He’d done it once already, and his back still hadn’t recovered yet. The deep licks Venable ordered were scabbed over and itching, and made him wince when he laid down in bed.

He thought of Langdon’s fingers tracing down them whenever they stung, and had to gnaw his tongue to keep from getting hard.

 

 

He didn’t frequent Langdon’s room; that’d require the other man inviting him. Which itself would require him having interest. Gallant walked by it a lot, though. He could lap it three or four times on a good night; up to eight, if the dreams came early. And they always seemed to now, which was strange. He never had them before.

The scene was always the same: young boys, torn to shreds in their prep school uniforms. Some missing limbs or cut through with gashes, and all of them still losing blood. It was dark and fresh, pooling in the negative space of the shapes they'd been twisted into. Like whoever killed them had just wandered off scene. It was an ugly dream, and so real he could smell it: all their gore, piss, and fear. When he woke his heart would be knocking his ribs, and nothing but a walk could settle it.

Langdon's door was often cracked, or just closing, or coming open whenever he passed by it. He slept bad too; that, or not at all. There used be be drugs for that. Gallant remembered. There were pills you could crush down to powder and snort, that wore down cartilage and burned a hole through the night. But that couldn’t be it. Langdon's nose was too pretty, and all the good stuff had been irradiated or dumped. There was hardly proper storage for basic medicines anymore. Anything recreational was considered dead weight.

Whatever kept him up must've come from the gut: an anxiety or old fear. He didn’t think he could guess what scared someone like Langdon, but feeling it out was too tempting to resist. Or rather, he thought it'd be. As it turned out, though, engaging him outside of an interview was just as unsettling.

“Aren't you tired?”

He regretted the question as soon as Langdon looked up. His cold eyes cut from the file, settling on Gallant’s face without heat or light. He couldn't help thinking of the word _shark_.

The two of them were alone in the music room, though they hadn’t been, initially. It’d been full of milling Grays, and Coco and Andre had been on the couch with him. The three had been chatting for a few hours, pretending the water in their flutes was wine. They’d been enjoying themselves until Langdon strode in, and took a seat by the fire. It was like he’d sensed the lapse in their gloom, and come to plug up the hole himself.

He alternated between leafing through his notes and glaring at everyone until they scuttled out. The Grays all caved first, but Andre and Coco weren't far behind. It was late, they said, which was probably true. Venable hadn’t checked in for an hour. That wasn’t the reason they were leaving, though. Gallant knew it, and so did Langdon. The man’s eyes followed them as they hurried out, and Gallant thought he saw his mouth turn up. It was an ugly smile, and what ultimately prompted the question.

“Of what?” the man asked.

“Working.”

Langdon chuckled. “Reading isn't strenuous.”

He gnawed his lip, tugging a dead flap of skin.

“No,” he agreed. “But staying up all night is.”

He didn’t know what made him say it. It was stupid, but there was no time to walk back. Michael’s eyes had already narrowed on his.

“How would you know what I do at night?”

“I don’t,” he said, amending when Langdon’s brow quirked. “I mean, I know you’re up. I’ve seen you.” He paused again, shaking his head. “Not in your room, but when you--”

The other held up a hand, calling for silence. Gallant gratefully clamped his mouth shut. Stupid, he thought again. What was it nana used to say? _You’ll never catch a good man, talking like that._

Langdon wasn’t a trout he could snag by the mouth. He wasn’t even good, as far as Gallant could tell. Still, he shouldn’t have said anything. Talking always got him in trouble.

“I’ll spare you the embarrassment if you spare me the time.” He closed the file on his lap without marking his place. “I know how often you pass my door at night.”

Gallant swallowed hard. “Have you told Venable?”

“Why would I?”

To be a spiteful bitch, for one.

“There’s a curfew. She doesn’t like us out of bed.”

“Presumably because she thinks you’ll fall into another.”

He scoffed. That was probably right. 

“That isn’t what--”

“Don’t explain yourself,” the other man interrupted. “It’s unnecessary. I don’t care what you do.” He uncrossed his ankles and leaned forward in his chair. It backlit his golden hair, giving a halo. “I don’t think about you once after you leave my sight.”

The words were stern. Gallant believed them. He also believed that if he didn’t take the hint, Langdon might crush his throat under heel. He looked annoyed to have been interrupted. 

“Seems like an oversight,” he said, against better judgement. “Not even when you’re making selections?”

“Selections,” Langdon repeated. “For the Sanctuary, you mean?” Gallant nodded. “What makes you think you’re still in the running?”

That question didn’t. “You haven’t made an announcement.”

“No; that’s true.” Langdon leaned back, breaking his halo. It became light over the cushion. “I’ve been keeping you in suspense. But I don’t have to.”

The idea of hearing what he already suspected made his gut twist into knots.

“No,” he said quickly. “That’s ok. I can wait.”

Michael nodded, then flipped his file back open. 

“Stop pestering me, then. I have more important things to do.”

 

 

Langdon’s idea of important split off from Venable’s almost immediately. He worked too slowly for her taste.

“I was under the impression,” Gallant heard her hiss at mealtime, “that interviews would only take a few days.”

“They were meant to,” the man allowed, digging his fork into his bland nutrition cube. “But I’ve been authorized to conduct another round. Some of the subjects are worth a second look.”

She didn’t like that answer.

“You’ve communicated, I trust, the pitiful state of our rations?”

“I have.” He stabbed the cube again, taking a corner piece off. When the fork came up to his mouth, it was empty. “Don't worry, Wil. The chosen won't starve.”

“And the rest?”

“Not my concern.”

It was a horrifying answer, but one Venable seemed to expect. Gallant wondered how often they’d discussed this.

“How long?”

Langdon suckled his empty fork. “That depends on how willing your residents are to cooperate.”

Venable’s attention hopped along the table. When it landed on Gallant, he averted his eyes, hoping she wouldn’t notice he’d been watching.

“They’ll cooperate,” she assured. “Just take care not to run down our time. You have as little left as us.”

“You think so, Miss?”

The words were soft, muffled somewhat by his fork. The damn thing was still in his mouth. His tongue worked through the tines, jamming in the crevices obscenely.

She flushed. Gallant couldn’t blame her.

 

 

The second round of interviews ran slower than the first. Three days in, Langdon had only finished two. He kept the subject for hours and released them in a daze, often calling them back minutes later. He’d read over his notes for a while by the fire, then stand, beckoning with his handsome fingers. _One more moment_ , he’d say. _Just to clarify, please._

They wouldn’t be seen again until curfew.

Gallant couldn't guess what was taking so long. The original interviews had been brief; no more than half an hour with each subject. A full day now seemed excessive. Then again, those had been preliminaries. None of them had known, but Langdon had. Whatever he’d been screening for, he’d only skimmed the surface. Now, he was diving deep.

If the scrape had stung, he didn’t want to think about the pain of the man’s knife plunging in. Not that he expected to experience it firsthand. His interview didn’t warrant a callback. Even if the event itself had been vague, the aftermath wasn’t. Langdon clearly had no interest in him, and by extension, neither did the Cooperative. That was how it worked; he was sure of it. If Venable was the organization’s face, then Langdon was its hand. The right hand: strong, dirty, and red.

Even if he didn’t die by it, Gallant was going to die here. 

He’d had the thought many times before. Santa Monica was a map of near graves. Drugs, booze, bad men, bad moods: all had nearly taken him down. It was a miracle that he’d outlived the city. It’d had a thousand chances to bury him before becoming a crater, and Outpost 3 wasn’t much different. It was smaller, but just as treacherous. It swallowed goodness up and spat back the bones, ran on sweat, bad water, and no sleep. Venable was every bitch he’d ever caught under the heel of, and Langdon--

“Mr Gallant, are you listening?”

The soft gravel of Langdon’s voice dragged him from the thought. When he shook clear, he saw the man standing over him, head tilted and curious. His hair fell over his shoulder, and Gallant thought of tugging it.

“Sorry?” He cleared his throat. How long had Langdon been there, and since when were they alone? The last time he’d looked up, the room was full. “Didn’t catch that.”

“So I see.” Langdon straightened to look down his nose. “Do you consider this a good time to ignore direct communication?”

He didn’t consider this a good time for anything.

“No.”

“Then pay attention, and not just to me.” He made a show of peeking around the empty room. “You've been alone for an hour. Did you realize?”

No, he hadn't.

“No one could've grabbed me, I guess.”

“They tried,” Langdon drawled, tonguing an eyetooth. “You wouldn't respond. Tell me--” he crouched, giving Gallant the high ground. It didn't help. Even looking up, the man towered over him. “--have you been dreaming?”

The question threw him. “What?”

“Your eyes are glassy.” The man surveyed Gallant's posture, taking in the slouch he sought too late to correct. “You’re sitting badly, hardly eating--”

“You watch me eat now?”

If Langdon registered the words, he glossed over them.

“Losing appetite and time are side effects,” he continued, “as is pacing through the night.”

Gallant bit his tongue. That last he couldn't deny. They'd turned that ground already.

“Of what?”

“Sleep deprivation, which itself can be a symptom.” Langdon stood, retaking his advantage. “So I’ll ask again: have you been dreaming?”

He didn’t want to answer, but he also didn’t want to lie. Langdon would scent it, and it’d annoy him.

“Yes.”

“Nightmares?”

He nodded, and Langdon hummed.

“Not unexpected, given the circumstances.” He tapped a finger and his ring caught light. The flat face of the gem glistened like water. “Though to be safe, further discussion would be wise. I’ll note it in your file, and during your interview we can--

“Interview?” Gallant interrupted again, then winced. Langdon was looking impatient.

“Yes,” the man hissed. “We’re redoing them, if you recall.”

“I thought they were for people still in the running.”

“Until the process is complete, you’re all viable candidates. Unless you’re opting out?”

“No. Please.”

He regretted the words almost immediately. The smirk they inspired was ugly and mean. A familiar expression, one he knew from clubs and bars. If Langdon flashed it there, he’d have wanted to blow it clean. Here though, it made his skin draw tight. 

“At your interview, then.”

He inclined his head-- a nicety, but not nice--, then returned to the office across the room. 

Gallant waited for the door to slide shut between them before pushing out of his seat.

 

 

He wasn’t called into Langdon’s office the next day, or the one after. The man seemed to have a queue of residents running, though how it was organized Gallant couldn't guess. He called their names off a list, but it wasn’t alphabetized. There also didn’t seem to be gender or age groupings, which begged the question:

“How do you think he sees us?”

Andre didn’t look up from his book: something French Gallant found in one of the libraries. He couldn’t read it himself, but Andre had finished it three times already. Good find, he guessed. He’d have to look for more.

There wasn’t much to do here besides comb the halls and sleep, and he hadn’t done much of the latter. That left plenty of time to explore, and flesh out his mental map of the Outpost. The task had proven somewhat exhausting. The building was bigger than he'd thought. Since he started, he’d found three spare dormwings, six libraries, twenty classrooms, and a smattering of study halls. It’d been a school before; Venable had said, but he hadn’t expected it to be so expansive. How they clustered near the music room made it seem small. It opened up, though, if you knew where to look.

He figured it out over a series of sleepless nights, worked his way through the halls like a rat. Spent hours imagining how much nicer it must’ve been at capacity. Were the boys happy here? They must’ve been. It was a private school, some sort of special program. They were probably all geniuses with bright futures in STEM fields before their parents blew the world up. 

School had never been his forte-- one of many bullets on nana’s list of grievances. Seeing his friends was nice, though, and so was being away from home. Even near to flunking, he had perfect attendance. It was easier there, outside of his grandmother’s house: easier to breathe, eat, and think. It didn’t matter that he was awful at almost every subject. If it’d been an option, he wouldn’t have gone home. He’d have slept under a desk or a couch in the library, pretended he was in a dorm like the ones here.

Had they known how lucky they were? God, he hoped so.

“Are you talking about Langdon?”

Gallant shook himself. “Who else?”

Andre shrugged. “What’s it matter? Nothing you can do about it.” He wet his finger for traction on the page. “He either likes you or he doesn’t.”

“Sure, but why?” He scooted to the edge of his chair, balancing his elbows on his knees. Andre rolled his eyes at the pose, but obligingly shut his book. “What’s he looking for when he screens us?”

“Probably a sign that you won’t crack after a few decades.” Andre paused to suck his teeth. “And proof you won’t make waves. Keep your head down, knock up who they say.”

“They?”

“The Co-op. His bosses. The people we paid to be here, remember?”

Gallant wasn’t sure Langdon had bosses. He didn’t carry himself like a grunt. 

“And that’s it?” he asked. “You don’t think he has personal interests?”

“Probably, but what would those have to do with it?” The man reached for his book again, but only flipped the page’s edges. They made a sound like a deck of shuffling cards. “He’s not being bankrolled for his opinions.”

“Food bank.”

“What?”

“Food bank,” Gallant repeated. “Rations, water, liquor. That’s how they’d pay him. Not with money.”

“Whatever. Either way, he’s not getting it for think pieces, and you still haven’t said why you care.” Andre’s brow furrowed. “Trying to game him?”

Gallant snorted. He’d never been good at that. “No.”

“Good. It wouldn’t work. You don't have anything he wants.” The words hung between them a few seconds before Andre sucked air in through his teeth. “I didn't mean--”

“I know,” he interrupted, because he did. And anyway, it was true. Langdon was taking what he wanted already. “Can't fuck our way out of this one.”

Andre snorted. “Shame, right? It'd be easier.”

Gallant thought of how Langdon's eyes would feel roving his naked chest. How their flinty edges would shred him before he even undressed.

It probably wouldn't be easy at all.

 

 

It was the stress of waiting for the second interview, probably. That, or compounding hunger. With rations fizzling out, their meal cubes had been halved. Gallant hadn't felt full in a week.

It could've also been sleep deprivation, poisoning from the sour water, or the air going bad around them; lack of sun or entertainment or something to stick his dick in.

Whatever it was, the dream was getting worse.

He didn’t come upon the aftermath of a crime anymore. He watched it unfold, helpless and mute. He saw the assailant rend the boys and arrange their limbs in wide circles. If there was a reason for it, Gallant couldn’t guess. He also couldn’t guess what the attacker looked like. No matter how he turned, he was at the boy’s back. He could pick out a few details, but none of them were helpful. Approximate height, weight, and hair color. The only useful observation was that he wore the same uniform as his victims. A fellow student, someone they trusted. 

Was that how he’d lured them down to death? Probably, but Gallant didn’t want to think about it. It made his stomach ache, and that didn’t need any help. Because the smell of the dream had gotten worse too, and followed him out of sleep. When he woke, cooling gore stuck in his nostrils and he'd gag, have to stumble to the bathroom. Bent over the toilet, he’d retch for minutes. He hadn’t actually vomited yet, though. It was just a reflex, though he wished he would. 

It would’ve covered the stink of blood, at least, and given him something else to think about.

 

 

“Are you dead already?” Langdon asked. “Or are you waiting your turn?” 

Gallant frowned. “Neither.” 

He straightened in the chair he’d been offered: a plush one by the fire this time, better suited for long conversation. Small favors. Langdon had already been at him for a hour. 

Two weeks after he'd been promised a callback, Langdon finally reached his name on the list. He'd been in his room when it was called, laid out across his bed. He'd come back to it after morning roll call, desperate for a few minutes of sleep. They didn't come, though. His body was stitched tight from a night of pacing. It'd have taken hours to relax. Hours, unfortunately he didn't have. Langdon's timing was impeccable.

 _Good thing you're dressed_ , Andre said when he came to collect. _He wants to see you now._

“What's your relationship to the scene, then?”

“Nothing. I can't effect or _be_ effected.” He paused, thumbing the curve of the chair’s supple arm. “It’s like I'm seeing it through a window.”

“A witness, then.”

Langdon didn't wait for confirmation before scribbling on his pad. Gallant strained his eyes to read it. No dice, though. The man's legs were crossed, and the angle tilted his notebook. He'd have had to be behind Langdon to read it, chin resting on the other man's shoulder. If he was there, though, he wouldn't be worried about reading. He'd be thinking about the smell of Langdon's shampoo, or the warm, even thump of his pulse, or how good it'd feel to latch onto that regal neck and suckle.

“Does that mean anything?” Gallant asked.

“It might. What do you think?”

“That you talk like I'm paying you by the hour.”

Langdon's brow arched, and he bit hard into his tongue. He didn't know what made him say it.

“I'm sorry,” he muttered. “I'm just--”

“I know.” The interruption was gentle. Langdon sounded like he was speaking to a child. “It must be awful. How long since your last night of sleep?”

He couldn't remember, which Langdon seemed to expect. His tongue clucked in sympathy.

“Sleep deprivation can be so hard on the mind.” He flipped his page. “Have you started hallucinating?”

His eyes were stuck to Langdon's pen. It was black, slim, and poised pretty. He bet the man had impeccable script.

“No,” he said, then frowned. “I mean, sort of. I see the boys sometimes.”

“The dead ones?” Gallant hummed. “Like they are in your dream?”

“Alive,” he corrected. “Whole.”

He almost hated that more than seeing them dead. How brightly they smiled as they glided by him in the halls highlighted their sweetness and youth. It turned his stomach, knowing the pain they'd be in later. He wanted to tell them to hide.

“Do they speak to you?”

He shook his head. “It's like I'm not even there.”

“Witness,” Langdon said again. “The sole survivor of a tragedy.”

Gallant’s eyes narrowed, crinkling at their corners. “That's what you think this is? Survivor's guilt?”

“It's a plausible explanation.” The man brought his pen to his mouth, tapping his lower lip with the nub. “Unless you have a better one.”

He did, but didn't want to say it. The possibility had gnawed at him since he'd learned the Outpost used to be a school. They were in uniforms, weren't they? It couldn't be impossible. 

Except it could be, of course, and it was. His chances of getting into the Sanctuary were slim enough already. There was no point in mumbling about ghosts and totally ruining it.

“You want to ask me something,” Langdon drawled. 

The blue of them had gone flinty and cold. Gallant could almost feel their edge trying to pry him open.

“No.”

That was a lie. A blatant one, too. Langdon didn't believe him. Sighing, he clicked his ball pen shut.

“Maybe next time, then.” He nodded to the door. “Dismissed. Send in the next.”

“We’re not finishing my interview now?”

“Exhaustion is making you uncooperative. Later, maybe, after you've slept.”

“Won't happen,” he muttered, meaning sleep more than anything.

Langdon smirked, and breathed out a warm laugh. “When you're pacing, then, and stop to skulk by my door.” 

He paused, giving Gallant time to deny it. He didn’t take it. There wasn’t any point. 

The man’s grin stretched wider. “Send Mead in next.”

Gallant had never been more grateful to be kicked out.

 

 

He didn’t stop at Langdon’s door that night. There wasn’t a point. He wouldn’t really be let in. Hinting that he would was bait on a hook. The man only wanted to hear Gallant beg: to listen to him scratch at the wood like a dog, whining for entry a few minutes before denying it. Langdon didn’t want to help; he wanted to be cruel. Gallant knew this. He wasn’t stupid.

That wasn’t enough to keep him from fantasizing, though, as he neared the barely cracked door. Didn’t stop him from imaging how his knock would echo, how the other man would look when he answered. Out of day clothes, his sleep shirt open on a handsome, narrow chest; golden hair frizzed and out of place, as though he’d been called from bed. 

It also hadn’t been enough to stop him peering through the crack, though afterwards he wished it had.

One of Langdon’s eyes was starting back at him through the gap. Unblinking, disembodied, and dead.

 

 

The Outpost was a physical being. It had dimensions, a beginning and end. It seemed cavernous at times, but that had to be illusion. It’s last wall was around a corner somewhere. Every night, Gallant fantasized about finding it. The idea was thrilling, but also made his nails ache, because what would he do then?

The fact that the bunker used to be a school became more apparent by the day. Most of the rooms he uncovered were old study halls, lined with shelves of books he didn’t understand: histories and theories on what sounded like magic. Except no, they couldn’t be. They were probably niche sciences he hadn’t heard of. It was a prep school, after all.

When it wasn’t a study hall, it was a library or classroom, or a storage closet filled with old trunks. Sometimes it was a bathroom or dead end hall, or a platform above a chute to the laundry. There wasn’t much thrill in it; apart from the strange books, there wasn’t even much find. Whatever remnants of school life remained were unreachable, locked in the storage trunks before the bombs dropped. He had no hope of breaking into those. Their padlocks were thick and welded shut. Trying gave him something to look forward to, though, and the methodical search kept him sane.

Or it did on most nights, anyway. This one was an unfortunate blip. 

He was in a study hall again, though this one he hadn’t seen before. He didn’t know how that was possible. He’d walked this hall a dozen times, checking everything. This door, though, had been overlooked. When he entered, he guessed that’d been the case for a while. The central, round table had a thick layer of dust. The bookcases lining the walls were broken and angled dangerously or collapsed face down on the floor. The ones still standing were missing shelves, and their books returned awkwardly: shoved back in at an angle or with their spines to the wall. Those that hadn’t made it back were scattered on the floor, along with hundreds of old papers and photos. The scatter was thinnest near the door, building up to piles at the back wall. A back wall, Gallant noticed, that had a fireplace dug out. 

Whoever trashed this place had meant to burn it.

The idea knotted his gut. Had he been unhappy here: the student who tore the study apart? And why? Was he homesick or unpopular? 

Gallant shook the thought. It didn't matter. Whatever had happened before the blast was just that: before. There was nothing substantial left of that world now-- only shadows of faces and feelings. Shadows that weren't even worth chasing. His dreams were already bad enough. 

He should've backed out. These were personal things: photos of children and sloppy notes. None of it was for him, and snooping was rude. Never mind that the previous owners were dead. At least, Gallant hoped they were. The alternative was too grizzly to consider. 

He should've left, jammed the door and vowed never to come back. He didn't, though. The pictures were too enticing. Apart from the books, they were the only things he’d found. Not so much as a scrap paper was left to prove that boys had lived here. Until now, until this door presented itself. It'd be a waste to leave without at least looking around. Maybe he even owed it to them. 

Setting his lamp on the table, he dropped to his knees and began sorting through the mess. It didn’t take more than a few minutes. It turned out to be more torn book pages than anything. Once spread across the table, Gallant only counted twenty pictures. No duplicates, though. Twenty individual boys, all in crisp, familiar uniforms. The same ones worn by the students in his dreams. These were clean, though: no blood dappling their cuffs or collars. The fabric was neatly pressed, and cropped short on their wrists. The cut freed up their hands, allowing them to…

Gallant frowned. He wasn't sure what they were doing.

All of them were caught in motion, mouths open and hands turned up. Those were the focus of each shot, but why? On first glance, their hands all seemed to be empty. Or rather, nearly so. There was _something_ there. 

It was thin, barely glittering, like the camera had picked up an electric charge. Setting an overturned chair on its feet, he sat for a better look. He hunched over the photos, squinting to catch the static signature each set of hands kicked up. The sparks were present in all of them, but they weren’t uniform. Some were sparse, while others flew up several inches. It was a sliding scale, he decided, though what it measured he didn’t know. It reminded him a little of old ghost photography, of ectoplasm spilling from a medium’s mouth. This wasn’t ectoplasm, but it was definitely something. What were they trying to do?

There was no guessing. There weren’t context clues. The room behind each boy was blank. Even the backs of the pictures hinted at nothing. Whoever took them hadn’t counted on needing reminding. They’d only dated them and wrote the name of each boy. They hadn’t even said what class these were for. 

Annoyed by the dead end, Gallant sighed and slumped back. It’d been stupid to get his hopes up. In all the time he’d lived at Outpost 3, he hadn’t learned anything about it outside of what Venable let slip. He shouldn’t have expected this to pan out. Finding the room had been a fluke, a momentary blip of excitement in an otherwise--

He paused mid-scan of the line of pictures. His attention had been darting, taking in the faces he’d ignored while he was wrapped up in their hands. Most of them were forgettable; cute kids, but nothing special, and certainly no one he recognized. Which was a relief. The only thing he’d know them from was dreams, and he wouldn’t wish that on any of them. They were unknowns, or most were. On second glance, the last one was eerily familiar.

Gallant didn’t immediately recognize the boy, but there was something about him. Something about his golden curls, bright eyes, and sharp cheeks; how his plush mouth turned in a grin. He had growing to do, still-- he looked like a teen. But if Gallant used some imagination and hardened his lines, and lengthened his hair and painted his eyes, he looked an awful lot like Langdon.

“No way.”

The sound of his own voice made him jump. He didn't usually talk this late. There wasn't anyone to talk to, and he couldn't prove Venable hadn't bugged the place. If she had, he didn't want to get her attention. He got enough of it during the day. She was a bully, and he liked the break. He couldn't help it, though. The kid was Langdon's spit.

Gallant's throat was too dry to swallow. He had to bite his tongue to work up lube. The picture trembled faintly in his hand. If he turned it over, read the note-- but maybe he didn't want to. If he was wrong he'd feel stupid again, and if he wasn't...well, did it matter? Langdon had to have gone to school somewhere. It may as well have been here.

Except no; it did matter. Because if he'd gone here, he'd know why Gallant kept dreaming of blood. _You want to ask me something_. Wasn't that what he'd said? The smug bastard had been playing with him. Not that that was any different than usual. Somehow, though, this seemed more cruel. 

Gallant shook his head. He was getting ahead of himself. He still hadn't flipped the picture over. And maybe he wouldn't. There was still time to lay it down and go back to his room. He could forget the whole night, go to sleep and hope the ghosts were done with him for now.

He turned the picture over instead and held it up to the light. 

When he saw the name, his fingers went numb.

 

 

The picture stayed in his pocket for a week while Gallant decided what to do. Because he could be wrong. _Langdon_ wasn’t a rare name. He’d known several before the bombs dropped. They were classmates, salon regulars, and drinking buddies. Santa Monica was full of them. _Michael_ wasn’t uncommon either, and besides: he didn’t even know if that was his first name. 

The man hadn't given it or anything else up. Had he ever? Gallant found himself wondering. The man was touchy, but cold, stiffened if someone reached back. Gallant had learned this; he’d been watching. During their free time in the sitting rooms, he used to try to nap. Nightmares weren’t as common there. Now, though, he found himself fixating on Langdon, and how the man went rigid when someone dared to get close.

No, Gallant thought. He just hated them. They were desperate, starving, and stank. He must’ve fucked. He was beautiful. Boys and girls would've drooled for him, and still did. Terror aside, the Outpost was wet. Even Andre, who'd been curbing Gallant's interest, was starting to soften.

“Maybe he's waiting for one of us to make the move.”

“And what?” Gallant scoffed. “Jerk him off?”

The two were laying on Gallant’s bed. Door open, so as not to tempt Venable. If the bitch walked by, he wanted her to see them with their pants up. Langdon’s arrival had dampened her spirits, but she still swung for blood when she could. 

“Maybe. He hasn’t been getting any, either.”

That was true, and brought back the nagging thought. If he wasn’t a celibate, why hadn’t he taken someone? Were they really that repulsive? They probably were. The bathwater ran chalky now, making their hair and skin tacky. It smelled sour, and even the drinking supply was going bad. If starvation didn’t kill them, that would.

“We’re disgusting, Andre. He’d get a UTI.”

“Hence jerking him off. Until we get to the Sanctuary, and he lets us take a shower.”

Gallant bit back a moan at the thought. He hadn't had one since the bombs dropped. They only took baths here, and those were lukewarm. He missed the comfort of a scalding spray. It'd feel good on the scars knotting between his shoulders, and might even loosen them up. 

If he could get one. If Langdon could even be bought.

“You think he’s cheap enough to sell out for a handjob?”

Andre pushed up on his elbows to glare down.

“I _think_ he’d only got three interviews left, and after that? We’re fucked.” The corners of his mouth turned down and twitched. Was he going to cry? Gallant hoped not. “We’re getting left for the radiation monsters if we don’t figure something out. You want to die down here?”

He shook his head. He didn’t. Not really. He didn’t care what the Sanctuary was like. At least it’d be a change of scene.

“Then I suggest you start thinking of how to make yourself interesting.” Andre swiped his chapped lips with his tongue. “I’m getting out of here with or without you.”

That wasn’t likely, but Gallant didn’t say it.

 

 

 

He regretted using the name as soon as soon he said it. By then, though, it was too late. Langdon’s shoulders scrunched, and he spun sharply to face him.

“What did you just say?”

They were in the hall outside Langdon's room. Late night, several hours after bed check. Gallant, who hadn't bothered trying to sleep, had been wandering the halls since Venable's cane taps receded. Slowly, but not really taking the view in. There wasn’t anything left to see. He was just walking to make sure he didn't go to sleep.

Langdon apparently didn’t want to sleep either, because the two nearly mowed each other down. The man was walking the opposite way; coming back to his room, not leaving it. Gallant wondered where he’d been.

“Michael,” he repeated, because there was no point in refusing.

“Why?”

“Just a guess.”

Langdon spat back the word. It came out frothy and mean. Gallant knew he didn’t believe it. Even if he hadn’t sounded so condescending, it’d have read clear in how his eyes roamed Gallant’s body. His attention darted from shoe to collar, looking for-- he didn’t know what. Some sign of how the other man had learned the name, probably. Gallant swallowed hard, and thought of the picture in his pocket. Why hadn’t he taken it out yet? There was no reason to be carrying it around.

“Do you know why I have this job, Mr Gallant?”

“Because you’re a bastard.”

Langdon’s expression slacked, and he barked a laugh. “Additionally, perhaps.”

Clasping his hands behind his back, the man took several steps closer. Measured movements, like a predator circling. Gallant wished he had the energy to run. Not that there was anywhere to hide. If he’d guessed right, Langdon knew this place intimately. The best he could do was step back in response, but that only took him so far. The other wall was nearer than he remembered, and his heel knocked it after a few paces. He cussed, and Langdon’s mouth turned up. The flicker of panic the name flared in him was gone.

“More specifically,” the man continued, “it’s to do with a heightened sense. Can you guess what it is?”

The toe of Langdon’s shoe worked between his, urging his feet apart. Gallant let himself be spread on instinct, breath catching when the other slotted in. They’d been close before, but this was almost intimate. Flush as they were, he could feel the other breathing, make out the dull peak of his nipples. Erect, pebbled, aching, maybe. It was cold here, and he’d been alone. In some other time, Gallant would’ve slipped his hands under the man’s shirt: circled the tender skin until the peaks fully stiffened and Langdon gnawed his lip. He loved doing that, loved hearing mean men whimper, softening before finding their feet. They were always harsher for it after, and less careful with his body.

“Drifting again,” Langdon sneered. “Pay attention, and answer me.”

His cock gave a halfhearted twitch, and Langdon’s brow quirked. He must’ve felt it. How couldn’t he? He was close enough to count heartbeats. Gallant hurried on before he could say something.

“I don’t know,” he muttered.

“Let me tell you, then, and spare future embarrassment.” 

The man leaned in and Gallant stiffened. Standing still, he let Langdon rub their noses. They knocked together sweetly a moment before he tilted, bringing their mouths close. Not touching, but he could feel the threat of it. It knotted his gut, and his dick twitched again. Langdon’s laugh buzzed like static on his lips: a cold sound, but Gallant opened for it anyway. He whimpered when the other veered off course, leaving his jaw hanging slack. Langdon’s mouth climbed the hinge, open and dry, working back to his ear. He nuzzled the lobe when he found it and traced up to mutter in the shell.

“Even through months of night sweat and sticky masturbation, I can still smell it when you lie.”

Humiliation twined with the lust in his belly. He wondered if he could beg for a kiss. It wasn’t smart too, probably. It’d give him an excuse to break his jaw. That he hadn’t done that already was a miracle, actually. He had to think Gallant was stalking him. 

“I’ll make this easy. Give me what you found, and I’ll pay for it.”

“How do you know you have something I want?”

Langdon did him the favor of not laughing in his face.

“I have what everyone wants. Besides, I’m taking it either way.” He heard the man smack his lips. “I suggest handing it over while I’m feeling generous.”

If this was generous, he didn’t want to see him angry.

“Ok,” he said, the word cracking. “Ok.”

Working a hand between them, he fished through his pocket for the photo. It came out folded, back facing out and Langdon snatched it before Gallant could flatten it. The man stepped back, coming to rest under a sconce still working on the day’s candle. It was nearly burned down, but there was enough light left for the man’s eyes to flare in recognition.

“You were in the ruined library.” It wasn’t a question. “Could’ve sworn I ordered it boarded up.”

He wanted to ask why the man didn’t just have it cleaned. “Your crew must’ve forgot.”

“Must have.” He thumbed the photo, tracing a pattern Gallant couldn’t follow. “It doesn’t mean anything to you, does it?” He looked up from the picture. “You’ve had it for days and still don’t know what you’re seeing.”

“I’m seeing you.”

“You’re seeing a ghost. Speaking of--” The man refolded the photo and slipped it in his coat. “If you still want to ask, now’s the excellent time.”

It was a callback he almost didn’t catch. Their last interview was sunk in fog. Lack of sleep and malnutrition were wrecking his memory. The man let him chew it until it settled.

“I do,” he said.

Did he mean it? He couldn’t tell. His fingers curled in to cut his sweaty palm. He wasn’t sure he really wanted answers. Knowing the truth might make the dreams worse, or give a fuller body to the shadows in his peripheral. They’d been closing in for days, darting in and out of sight. He couldn’t escape the boys now, even in the day. They were always with him: just over his shoulder, hours from dying, and impossible to save.

“Inside, then.” The man gestured to his door. “It’s not an open air conversation.”

 

 

Gallant spent his first few minutes in the room wondering how it could look so unlived in. The man had been here for months, and the bed didn't look touched. A layer of dust covered the comforter and pillows. His suitcase was open at the foot of it, which he must be living out of. Gallant didn’t blame him. There was no point in getting settled.

“Sleep much?”

Langdon laughed. “Less than you.” 

That wasn’t possible. He had too much energy. He probably just slept at the desk. That was the only part of the room that looked used. The top of it was scattered with papers: files and written notes, letters with a dozen clustered signatures. His laptop was there too, closed and charging on a power bank next to a decanter of whiskey. Two glasses sat in front of it, both still wet. Someone else had been here, but Gallant wouldn’t ask who.

“I’d offer you some,” the man said, following his gaze, “but since you’ve been sick, water might be better.”

Another wave of embarrassment hit. He must still smell like vomit, and it’d have killed Langdon not to bring it up.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“I’m sure, but if you change your mind--” Langdon trailed off and turned away from his desk. Leaning back against the ledge, he let his hand come to rest on the mouth of a pitcher. “All you have to do is ask.”

Gallant blinked at it. Had it been there before? The desk was messy, but he’d have noticed a full, clean gallon. The Outpost’s supply was getting swampy, and this looked like it’d been filtered.

“Maybe,” he said, already wishing he’d taken it. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

Langdon hummed in agreement. “No. You want to ask something else.”

The man nodded to his bed, offering it as a seat. Gallant hesitated, not trusting the gesture. He waited until Langdon hopped onto the desk before sinking back himself. Even then he moved slowly, expecting the other man to bark. He didn’t, though. He waited for him to settle. When he finally did, Langdon crossed his knees.

“Go on. I know you want to.”

Gallant chewed his tongue. He wanted several things, and had fantasized about this bed more than once. It’d been broken in in those, warm with rucked up sheets. The cold reality of it was almost disappointing. Michael wasn’t, though. He glowed in the clustered candlelight, his hair and painted lids popping through the gloom. His voice was softer, too, like privacy smoothed his edges, and one foot tapped in the air. Each time it turned up it flashed a bright sole. Red bottoms.

_Only whores wear those._

Nana used to say that. She hated them, thought they made women looked cheap. Had she noticed Langdon wore them before she died? Probably. The old bitch didn’t miss anything.

“What happened here?”

Langdon shrugged. “The school was taken over by the Cooperative.”

Gallant’s mouth twitched. He knew that. “How, though?”

The man didn’t answer immediately. Gallant wondered if he was considering saying something asinine _like they bought it_. It wouldn’t be out of character. He should’ve known better than to expect this to be easy.

“It shut down,” he said instead, after a moment. “A few years before the blast. There wasn’t any point in letting a bunker go to waste.”

A school could shut down for several reasons. Lack of funding or a sex scandal, a drop in enrollment or code violations. It didn’t have to involve death. He couldn’t stop thinking about his dream, though. Of gore, and boys shredded like meat. 

“Why’d it close?” He scooted deeper into the bed. “Lawsuit?”

The man scoffed. “Local authorities weren’t interested enough for that. They were probably relieved when it happened, actually.”

“When what happened?” 

Langdon sighed. “You really can’t guess?” 

He could. He’d had the same dream for months, all of boys in uniforms like the one in Langdon’s picture. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, though. Saying it might give it life. Now that he was in Michael’s room though, he probably didn’t have a choice.

“They died,” he said carefully, keeping his eyes on Langdon, hoping for some sign of disagreement. When none came, he bit his tongue, working up spit to swallow. “I don’t know how many. Maybe all of them.”

“Not all.” The other man reached aside, laying a finger on the rim of a glass. He ran it with the tip, smearing lingering spit. “A few lucky ones were out visiting town. Everyone else, though-- well. You saw it.”

The words settled in Gallant’s gut like lead. What exactly was Langdon saying? That he’d been watching real children die? It wasn’t possible, or if it was, not something that’d happen to him. He’d never seen a ghost before, and wasn’t sure he believed in them. Before, maybe, in the same abstract way he believed in God, but there wasn’t room left for the supernatural now. The terror of nuclear fallout rendered it obsolete. Who needed Shirley Jackson when going outside made living skin slough? What they’d done to each other was horrifying enough.

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to. Reality isn’t dependent on it. But if you’re saying you don’t want to continue--”

“No. Tell me what happened.”

The man snatched up the glass he’d been fiddling with, as well as the full, clear pitcher. He poured it near to spilling before holding it out between them. A temptation, or maybe an offering. Gallant stared at it a while before scooting forward in bed, leaning off to reach. Michael didn’t snatch it back. He let Gallant’s fingers wrap it, then drew back, motioning for him to sip. Gallant obeyed, taking deep, frantic pulls. He could feel the man’s eyes sticking to his throat, tracking the bob of it as he swallowed.

“Officially,” Langdon began, “It was classified as school violence. It was a private institution, but statistics were public. General performance, for instance, drop out rates, and whether or not--”

“Kids were sneaking weapons on campus.”

The man's mouth twitched at the interruption, but otherwise he didn’t acknowledge it.

“Open and shut, in the district’s opinion. Not worth any further digging. People kill each other all the time, after all.”

They did, Gallant thought. Even children. His own schools had been splattered with blood. Fist fights, stabbings, guns stuffed in lockers. 

“What about the unofficial explanation?”

Michael tongued the point of one tooth. The edge caught light and gleamed like a blade. It tripped Gallant's pulse, and he thought of his dreams. Of that golden haired boy with blood smeared on his knuckles, bringing down a long, sharp knife.

“The arrangement of the bodies,” Michael said carefully, “and the fact that most of their hearts were missing--”

“Missing,” Gallant repeated, the word coming dry.

“Ripped out, actually. May I finish?” 

This was Langdon’s room, and his operation, besides. Gallant couldn’t stop him from doing anything. He _could_ annoy him more than usual, though, apparently. The fact made him bite his tongue.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Go on. Please.”

Michael uncrossed his legs and knocked his heels together. The square toes of his shoes arched down.

“That and a few painted pentagrams made several families believe it was ritualistic. That their sweet boys had been made a sacrifice. Impossible to prove, though. The killer never stood trial.”

“Why not?”

“Because they never found him. He left school, and wasn’t seen again.”

Gallant’s grip on the glass whitened. “So, what? He’s still out there?

Michael’s brow furrowed. For a moment, he only stared, his eyes narrow and chilled. The gaze was unsettling. Gallant felt himself wilt under it, and was glad he had the cup to fidget with. It gave him something to focus on besides the cutting attention. What was the bastard looking for, anyway? Submission, maybe. He’d give him that. Give him anything.

“Nothing’s out there anymore,” Langdon said. “Just radiation beasts, and those are brainless. The only thing that should scare you is being left to rot, and that only nominally. It's an avoidable fate.”

“How?” 

“Impressing me.” Langdon’s painted lids fell, heavy and sweet. The red made him look like a bird. “I’m looking for skill sets worth preserving.”

He thought of what Andre said, and his filter lagged. “I give good head. Does that make me worth saving?”

Michael’s expression broke in genuine shock. Only for a second, though. His forehead smoothed quickly, slack jaw clamping shut, and the muscles twitched like he was biting back sound. A laugh, probably, but Gallant allowed himself to imagine the pretty thing moaning instead. What would he sound like with a mouth around his cock? Did he groan, rumble cusses, or whimper? Maybe he begged. Mean ones usually did. They were terrified of payback, of being left on edge if they weren’t cloying and meek.

“Are you trying to bribe me?” 

The question shattered Gallant’s fantasy. The man’s voice was silky, but but nothing like sweet. Setting his glass on the nightstand, then let his free hands come to rest on his thighs. He stroked them, wondering if he should spread. Too much, probably. He didn’t want to look needy.

“I might be,” he purred, or tried to. His throat was dry and it came out gruff. “Is that an option?”

“If you weren’t half dead, maybe.” 

The man slide off his desk and tugged the creases from his shirt. Gallant tensed. Should he stand, too? Michael hadn’t said, and he was tired-- exhausted, actually. The bed felt good, and it’s sheets were clean. He could smell them, and it highlighted how much he reeked. How could Langdon stand to be in the same room?

Better question: how did the other man not smell like rot yet?

Michael didn’t leave him time to chew the thought. Once satisfied with his appearance, he made his way to the bed. Slow steps, heels cracking on stone.

“That’s what’s happening, you know. Starvation, bad water, exhaustion: it’s all killing you. Do you want to die here?” He shook his head. “No, of course you don’t. You want to live: be warm, have a shower, get _fucked_.”

He didn’t realize how close the man was until he spat the word and it blew hot against his skin. Michael was leaning over him-- since when? A second ago he’d been pacing. Now, though, he was looming near. His hands were planted on either side of Gallant’s thighs, long hair tumbling over his shoulders. It smelled like rose water, and Gallant sucked in a breath, savoring the crispness while he could. Langdon allowed it, even moved closer. Close enough that he worried the man’s lips would brush his brow, and then what would he do? Sob, probably. It’d be too tender. He couldn’t stand it. His overworked heart would burst.

“None of that’s possible here, of course. But--” Langdon paused, and like he’d heard the thought, pressed lips between Gallant’s brows. The man groaned and tried leaning into the contact. It was gone, though, and he met nothing. “I can give you something just as nice, if you ask politely.”

Nothing could be better than being clean again. Still, he took the bait. “What?”

“Dark sleep. No dreams.” The man’s mouth was on the move again. It brushed the bridge of his nose then dove aside, dragging along his cheek. Helpless, Gallant turned with it, exposing himself to the soft heat. “You’ve missed that, right?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he spat, half in answer, half response to the teeth snagging his ear.

It didn’t matter it was a pill or some homebrew injection. It didn’t even matter if the man beat him unconscious. He didn’t care if it hurt or made him bleed. He wouldn’t fight it. He just wanted to sleep.

“Ask properly,” the man teased, lapping at the fleshy lobe. Gallant’s cock throbbed, and he wanted to die. “Full sentences. You’re not a child.”

He felt like one. “Please, Michael. Whatever you want. I just need to sleep.”

A tense, ugly silence stretched out between them. For a moment, he thought the man had been playing. His gut knotted, ready to turn again, but then Michael’s hum buzzed his jaw.

“Good boy. That’s worth a few hours.”

Breathing out a sob, he turned into the man’s jaw. His chin knocked it, and he nuzzled like a dog. He muttered a few pitiful _thank you_ s, but Michael ignored them. 

Langdon muttered a few words he didn’t understand, and Gallant felt himself blacking out.

 

 

 

It was empty, dreamless sleep, but it wasn’t good. Or it was, and there just hadn’t been enough of it. That was more likely. It’d probably take a dozen nights to catch up. Until then, he’d keep waking up groggy.

He came to on Langdon’s bed fully dressed and in his shoes. He wasn’t even tucked under the covers. The only thing the man had done was stretch him out across the comforter. Good enough. Gallant could’ve slept on the floor. He was grateful for the mattress, though. It was easier on his back, and the pillows were plush and warm. 

He nuzzled the one under his cheek and finished yawning before calling out the other man’s name. No answer. No movement. No light in the bathroom, either. He must’ve gone back to pacing.

In a world without bunkers and ration cubes, Gallant might’ve considered this intimate. A sign that his partner trusted him; maybe not with his life, but not to snoop, at least. There was something tender about being left to sleep, and waking up next to nothing but a warm patch.

The comforter next to him was cold, and didn't even look touched. Langdon hadn't used it. He'd only dumped Gallant onto it and left.

He might as well have left him sleeping in the hall.

 

 

 

“Did you fuck him?”

“Who?”

Andre rolled his eyes. “Langdon. I saw you leave his room.”

Gallant snorted. Right. That. “Is that why you ignored me yesterday?”

Andre’s frown deepened, but he didn’t push away. They were on Gallant’s bed again: stretched out on their sides, close enough to brush noses. Friends, he realized. Andre was his _friend_.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to--”

“Doesn’t matter. Just tell me. I want to know.”

Wanted to know, Gallant guessed, because he’d tried too. He didn’t blame the guy. They were running out of options. There was one call back left, and it was scheduled for tomorrow. One of the grays; he didn’t know the girl’s name. After that, Langdon would be drafting his list of selections. Just in time, too. Ration cubes were critical. Venable quartered instead of halved them now. If he didn’t wrap this up soon, they’d starve.

“Nothing happened. I mean it,” he tacked on when Andre’s brow quirked. “We just talked, and he gave me something to help me sleep.”

He still hadn’t figured out what he’d been given. He couldn’t remember drinking or taking a pill. All he remembered was Langdon’s voice-- soft, low, and lilting-- and the flick of a tongue against his ear.

“You’re serious?” Andre asked. After Gallant nodded, he sighed. “Well, you got further than me.” He stuffed his hand deeper under his pillow, settling more comfortably in bed. “He’s interested, at least. You might have a shot.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Like what?” 

“Like you’re already dead.”

Andre smiled, but there was no comfort in it. 

“I am, honey,” he muttered. “All of us all are. He’s just picking who to defibrillate.” He nuzzled the pillow and shut his eyes. “Put in a good word for me, alright?”

Gallant’s throat was drawn too tight to answer.

 

 

 

The next time he dreamed, the scene shifted again. He didn’t watch the boys die. They were dead already, cut up and arranged. He watched the killer clean his knife instead.

He wiped blood off it in long, sticky lines. On his pants, upper arms, and undershirt, anywhere viscera wasn’t caked. It was a botched job since his hands were still slick. He couldn’t get the handle clean; kept leaving little bloody fingerprints. The blade was gleaming by the time he turned, though. It caught light from a source Gallant couldn’t see and glinted, putting a glare on his face.

His gut turned at the sight, because he knew it. Knew it well. He’d spent a week studying it in a photo. It was Langdon: younger, softer cheeked, and angelic. Or he would’ve been, if it weren’t for all the blood. Great globs of it rolled down his brow and speckled the bridge of his nose like freckles. His mouth was smeared too, like he’d been chewing something. What had Michael said about the hearts? _Ripped out._ But Gallant hadn’t considered this. Taken and kept like trophies, maybe. Eating them, though--

_Do you see me?_

The boy’s mouth didn’t move. It was Michael’s voice, though. Gallant recognized the warm, playful tone. Before he could answer-- was he going to? He hadn’t decided-- the boy blipped out of sight. When he reappeared he was close, horribly so, and Gallant flinched back. Stumbling, he met the cold wall. That only put a few inches between their chests; not enough space for how Langdon pointed his knife.

 _Do you see me?_ the boy asked again. 

When Gallant didn’t answer, he raised his knife higher. He brought the point of it to Gallant’s chin and kissed him with it. The nerve it sparked made him gasp.

“Yes,” he whimpered, swallowing against the blade. It dug into his skin, threatening to cut. 

Whatever the boy wanted, whatever he meant by finally showing himself, that one word seemed to placate him. After he heard it the scene broke, and he and the dead boys glitched, taking the room with them. 

Gallant woke in his bed to his own suite’s stink: low burning candles, grimy skin, and hair grease. 

When he turned his head on the pillow, he saw Michael’s knife laid out on it, and coughed up bile onto the sheets.

 

 

 

Michael’s door was propped open when he stumbled to it minutes later, the hilt of the knife burning in his hand. The man was sitting on his desk, attention fixed on the empty archway. Waiting for him, Gallant supposed.

“Why are you doing this?” he grunted, voice gummy. He still tasted bile and stagnant night spit.

“Shut the door,” Langdon said in lieu of answer, and didn’t didn’t speak again until Gallant obeyed. “Doing what?”

“You know what.” He crossed the room in shaky strides, stopping a few feet short of Langdon’s desk. He lifted the knife like an accusation. “Look familiar?”

Langdon hummed. “Come to return it, angel?”

The pet name stung like salt and Gallant faltered. He wanted to buckle, ask him to say it again. It sounded sweet, even though it had to be a tease. Because Langdon wasn’t sweet; he was derisive and mean. He was also, apparently, a child killer and-- no. Gallant wouldn’t guess anything else. What he could prove was gut wrenching enough. There was no point in speculating worse.

“Why me?” he demanded. “I haven’t done anything.”

“No,” Michael agreed. “You haven’t.” He slid from his desk, heels clicking hard on the floor. Only once; he didn’t advance, but the threat was visceral. “All considering, you’ve been surprisingly cooperative.”

“So why?” 

“Maybe I like you, and wanted to pull your pigtails.” Langdon paused long enough to shrug. “Or maybe I just like hearing you squeak.”

The second option was more believable. He’d done nothing but abuse them all since he came. Venable, Mead, Andre, and everyone. Michael loved watching them squirm. And they’d done it, sang and danced just how he wanted.

“I should kill you,” Gallant said.

“Should you?” The other man smiled, wide and full of teeth. “Before you've even gotten what you want?”

“You don't know what I want.”

“I do.”

He stepped slowly away from his desk, and Gallant had to force himself not to walk back. He didn't want to give the bastard any more satisfaction.

“You reek of more than crotch rot,” Langdon continued, voice smokey and low. “I can smell your desire a hall away. I know what you think about when you fist your cock.” 

Gallant hadn’t masturbated in weeks. He was too tired; still, he’d gotten hard. In bed, in the bath, under the table at dinner, and the thought of Michael noticing made his knuckles ache. 

“Yea?” he asked, hoping to sound even half as condescending as Langdon looked.

“Yea,” the man repeated. “My teeth on your nipples, or how your cum would look in my hair.”

Gallant winced, but didn’t bother denying it. There wasn’t any point. The man was in his head, and if he could find that, he could find anything. He didn’t want to goad him into digging deeper. 

“You saying you want to do something about that?” Gallant tightened his grip on the knife. The handle was getting clammy. “Thought I wasn’t your type.”

“You don’t know enough about me to guess my type. And anyway, you’re armed.” Michael’s attention darted to the blade. It was outturned, closed most of their distance. If he shifted, it’d snag his open coat. “Put that to my throat, and you could cum anywhere.”

The suggestion nearly made him drop the knife. He couldn’t; not to Langdon or anyone. It was disgusting. Gallant shook his head.

“You’re trying to distract me.”

“From what? Stabbing me? No one’s stopping you.” Langdon brought his hands up to fuss with the buttons of his shirt. He popped them loose, working down his chest. “Except your own doubt and cowardice, maybe. But that’s not new, is it?”

Gallant didn’t respond. All his attention was stuck to the deepening part of Michael’s shirt. It spread, revealing inches of his slim chest: pale, barely toned, and soft. No scars or hair, just the shallow slope of lean muscle. He wanted to sink his teeth into it. 

“You want a lot of things,” Michael said, though Gallant couldn’t tell if it was in answer to the thought. “Independence, affection, stability, men. That’s all you do: want and wait. Hoping everything will fall into place so you never have to work up the guts to _take_.” 

He swiped the sticky backs of his teeth. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? Prove it, then. Do what you came to.” 

Langdon tugged his shirt apart, fully exposing his chest. Strong collar, supple muscle, little nipples that begged for teeth. And just above that, the perfect spot to stick a knife. Was he bluffing? He had to be, or calling Gallant’s own. Either way, he couldn’t mean it. The knife was long and vicious. With enough force, it wouldn’t miss. It’d pierce flesh, bone, and heart like they were nothing. 

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Gallant flinched from the invasion and lifted the knife. “Get out of my head.”

“Or what?” 

The man slotted a foot between Gallant’s own and scooted in, only stopping when the blade met skin. It burrowed, nicking the spot, and a bead of blood swelled up. Gallant’s fingers twitched at the sight. The shift twisted the blade and the little wound widened. The flow of blood quickened, slugging out around the steel. No. He couldn’t do it. The bastard deserved it, but he couldn’t. Not even like this.

After several long, still seconds, Michael snorted. 

“Weeks of teasing, and you still can’t stick it in? How disappointing.” The man’s eyes narrowed, and pressure mounted between Gallant’s brows. Like the press of fingers, or no: a probe. Langdon was fishing again, and before he could even think of how to stop it-- “Just like your grandfather suspected.”

His belly clenched, and his grip on the knife redoubled. “Don’t.”

“What? I’m just quoting.” Langdon leaned into the blade, like a challenge. Like a bet. “What did he like to say? _Prissy, good for nothing, boot-licking little f_ \--”

“I said _don’t_ ,” Gallant snarled, hard enough to spit.

He didn’t realize he’d dug the knife in until Michael sputtered, gaping down at the hilt flush with his chest. By then, though, it was done, sunk too deep in to have missed. Gallant cussed, and felt his wrists go numb.

“Jesus,” he moaned, snatching his hand back from the hilt. He couldn’t tear his eyes from it, though. Blood leaked around it, striping down Michael’s ribs. Bright and oxygenated, not even scrubbed yet. “Fuck, Michael. I didn’t-- wasn’t trying to…”

But what could he say? They didn’t even have first aid kits. Langdon was going to die, and then everyone else would, because he hadn’t contacted the Cooperative rescue team yet. They’d starve, all because he couldn’t stand to hear about one more ghost. 

“Hush,” the man breathed. He wrapped a hand around the hilt. It wasn’t trembling, and why not? “You were being brave. Don’t ruin it.”

Gallant’s jaw clamped shut, teeth grinding together. He knew what Michael was going to do, and wished he wouldn’t. Opening the wound would just make him bleed out faster. If he was smart, he’d leave it in. He didn’t though. The man yanked the blade out, wincing as it slid free. Gallant whimpered, but still didn’t speak. Because Langdon said to hush, and there was nothing to say anyway. He’d save it for whatever story he fed Venable. That Langdon had attacked him, maybe. She’d believe that; have to.

“I can hear you gears turning,” the other said. Or at least, the words came from his mouth. The voice wasn’t right, though. It was raspier and layered, glitching like Michael’s body was too small for it. “Good instinct, but you don’t need it yet. You haven’t killed me, angel.”

His free hand rubbed up his blood slick belly, coming to rest over the wound. He held it there, chanting something Gallant couldn’t understand. They were words-- had to be, but he didn’t recognize the language. The syllables were clunky and old. Hearing them made his ears ring, and he felt a rush of gratitude when they ended.

Until Michael pulled his hand away.

His palm and chest were still smeared with blood, but the puncture it came from was gone, leaving the skin smooth and unbroken. It was like he’d never been stabbed at all. Which was impossible; Gallant knew what he’d done. Even if he wasn’t sure, the evidence was there. On Michael’s hand, collarbone, and the long blade of the knife. It was red still, the tip dripping on the floor.

“Don’t be afraid,” the man said, voice strange still, but settling. Whatever he’d called on for strength was tamping down. “You did what we both wanted. Doesn’t that feel good?”

It didn’t. Nothing had in awhile. 

“What are you?” he asked, voice trembling and weak.

Langdon’s head cocked. “Does it matter?”

It probably didn’t. Knowing wouldn’t make anything better. But if he didn’t keep talking, he’d vomit again.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Why would I? You’re only just now getting interesting.” He raised the knife anyway, and Gallant flinched. Clucking his tongue, Michael wrapped his free hand around the other’s nape. “Hold still. I have a gift for you.”

He couldn’t have moved after that if he wanted. Langdon had him scruffed. Besides, the blade was close. If he turned wrong, it’d tear his face open. 

The man laid the flat of it on his chin, letting the length rest on his open mouth. Gallant panted against it, smelling blood and his own sweat, and smearing the sticky liquid on his pout.

“Have a taste,” Langdon said, like he was offering wine. “I’m told it’s sweet.”

He pressed the blade in harder, catching the tip on Gallant’s nostril. A warning shot. He remembered those: a gun fired at the ceiling, or a knife burying in the wall next to your ear. He wouldn’t be given a second chance; not for this, or anything. There wasn’t enough luck left in the world, so he did as he was told: darted his tongue out to lap the blade, licking a little swath clean. Not satisfied yet, Langdon shifted, dragging the flat down and pressing it between his lips to slide over Gallant’s tongue. His pulse spiked but he didn’t tense; didn’t want to slice his own tongue. Relaxing, he let the man fuck his mouth: work the blade in slow pumps over his welcoming muscle and smearing sticky blood like honey.

“Good boy,” Michael praised when Gallant forgot himself and groaned. It _was_ sweet, and when was the last time he’d tasted that? “Clean it for me, and I’ll let you get some more sleep.”

Gallant moaned again, too hopeful to be ashamed.

 

 

 

Outpost 3 was a haunted place, possessed both by what died there and what wouldn’t. The slaughtered boys, starving residents, Michael fucking Langdon.

Gallant wasn’t sure where he fell on that spectrum yet.

If he wasn’t dead, he was close. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, or had more water than what Langdon let him sip. And if he was dead, if this was hell-- well. There wasn’t any point in guessing. He wasn’t getting out, regardless. 

He was trapped, like the schoolboys and everyone else. All he could do was wait.

That, and ignore the burn of Michael’s eyes watching from _somewhere_ , counting the seconds until he fell asleep.


End file.
